


everybody on this earth has got a vice (and mine is the opposite of ice)

by StoriesofmyLife



Series: i just want your extra time (and your kiss) [2]
Category: Top Gun (1986), Top Gun: Maverick (2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Character Study, Coming Out, DADT, Don't Ask Don't Tell, Fluff and Angst, Ice POV of Maverick Mitchell being a total dork, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, Kinda, M/M, Past and Present Colliding, Self-Discovery, and maverick isn't helping, but it turned into a 10k+ essay as to why ice is the way he is, don't worry there's still sex, ice is just trying to figure out who he is okay, kind of, non-linear timeline, slider is over it, this was supposed to be a sexy sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28448571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesofmyLife/pseuds/StoriesofmyLife
Summary: Tom Kazansky is eighteen the first time he gets his heart broken.(Tom Kazansky is also eighteen the first time he gets drunk, but that's just purely by coincidence)Or-The sequel and prequel, all wrapped up into one neat, 10k non-linear package, to nothing compares to you (nothing, nothing).
Relationships: Nick "Goose" Bradshaw & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky & Ron "Slider" Kerner, Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell
Series: i just want your extra time (and your kiss) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2083806
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	everybody on this earth has got a vice (and mine is the opposite of ice)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



> Hi guys! It's been a longgggg time since I've written anything for the TG fandom (and by that, I mean six months lmao). I've been spending the last few months writing for the Cobra Kai/Karate Kid fandom and while I'm totally in love with that little community, IceMav is my first love. I started the year with them and it seemed only right that I ended the year with them, too. I also missed you guys and I'm so happy to be back :)
> 
> I had this sequel planned out since I posted nothing compares to you and it's just been sitting, in my documents, waiting for me to come back to it. This was supposed to be a fun, sexy sequel and it ended up turning into character study of Ice's back story that I alluded to in the first fic, literally just taking a life on its own. 
> 
> Please note that the word fag gets used here and there, but that's the only real warning that I think applies here. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd (sorry!) and all the mistakes are my own 
> 
> Title and series title taken from Temptation and Kiss, respectively & both are by the late and great Prince. 
> 
> Enjoy :)
> 
> For Carly, who was v v upset about the lack of sex in the last one. I hope this makes it up to you <333

Maverick’s door gets shut by Ice slamming him up against it. Keys clatter to the ground, something on the table breaks when it hits the floor, but Ice doesn’t care, too focused on getting Maverick’s shirt unbuttoned without breaking away from his lips. 

He manages, somehow, but when his fingers brush against warm skin, Ice finds himself pulling away to look; wants to see the newly exposed skin, wants to see if Maverick’s flush goes all the way down to his chest, wants to see the goosebumps that bloom underneath his fingertips in response to his touch.

Maverick looks like a cover model for _Playgirl: A Salute to the Military_ with the way he’s leaned against the door—dark hair mussed, green eyes heavy lidded, lips red and kiss swollen, cheeks flushed, his uniform shirt unbuttoned all the way, tan skin gleaming in the low light coming from the lamp on the small entry way table—properly debouched and utterly gorgeous and Ice wants _more._

“Take a picture, Kazansky, it’ll last longer,” Maverick says with a smirk that’s all cocksure arrogance and bravado, but Ice can see the insecurity underneath the lust, the fear of rejection, like Ice may not like what he sees. 

Which is too ridiculous of a notion to even consider, considering Maverick Mitchell is all Ice has been able to think about for three goddamn years; ever since that night he dropped to his knees at Ice’s feet and proceeded to sing the world’s worst Prince song, in front of a bar full of people, with that same smirk on his lips. 

“Yeah? Kinda like this polaroid I keep hearing about?” Ice asks as he sucks a bruise into Maverick’s neck. It’s low enough that the collar of his uniform should hide it, which makes him sad, but he knows it’s for the best. 

“Hey, fuck you,” Maverick says, but his fingers tangle in Ice’s hair and his voice gets a breathy quality to it when Ice’s lips find a spot behind his ear, so Ice knows there’s no real meaning behind it. “The MiG actually happened and I’ll prove it to you, tomorrow morning—“

“A bit presumptuous, aren’t we?” Ice murmurs, but his belly _swoops_ at the thought of getting to fall asleep next to Maverick, to wake up next to him, to kiss him good morning—

“Confident,” Maverick corrects, gasping when Ice bites gently at the curve of his jaw, before finding his lips again. 

Ice hums, teasing at Maverick’s belt and begins to walk them backwards, towards Maverick’s bedroom, thankful that all their housing assignments are designed the same way. 

“Okay, I’ll stay,” Ice agrees, kissing Maverick’s lips again, once, twice, before he pulls away to smirk down at Maverick from their slight height difference. “On one condition.”

“And what’s that?” Maverick asks distractedly from where they’re working at the buttons on Ice’s shirts. 

“I’m the one that gets to do the fucking,” Ice whispers, nipping at Maverick’s bottom lip, teasing his teeth over the soft skin. 

Ice smirks to himself when he feels Maverick’s fingers stumble over the buttons, hears the hitch in his breathing, the way his lips part in a surprised gasp underneath Ice’s. 

“Is that alright with you, Mave- _rick?”_ Ice asks, voice low and filled with gentle taunting. He pulls away to see Maverick’s expression and he’s not disappointed, not in the slightest. 

The green of Maverick’s irises are almost totally eclipsed by the black of his blown pupils and what is visible, is filled with so much heat and desire that it makes Ice’s breath catch and his erection strain against the zipper of his dress whites.

Maverick swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing deliciously and it takes him a moment, but when does find his voice, it’s rough and raw and it sends shivers racing down Ice’s spine, heat curling low in his belly.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Kazansky.”

Ice grins, shoving him down on to unmade bed, laughter spilling from his lips when Maverick tugs him down with him.

*

“What the _fuck_ was _that?”_ Slider demands as soon as they’re out of bar—away from prying eyes and nosey sailors, the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses disappearing the further they get down the sidewalk. 

Ice can still feel the flush on his cheeks, hear the off-key warbling of some lowly _Prince_ song ringing in his ears and there’s a pit in his stomach that’s making him regret drinking without eating dinner.

But then again, looking at Slider’s incredulous expression, Ice wonders if maybe he should've drank more. That’s the only way this conversation is going to land anywhere near _tolerable_ or decent and with nerves suddenly slithering like angry snakes in his belly, he wouldn’t be opposed to a little liquid courage, either. 

_Hindsight is 20/20 and all that_ , Ice thinks to himself with a derisive snort

“Well,” Ice says, tone dry, “it seems like someone got drunk and decided it would be hilarious to serenade me with the world’s shittiest _Prince_ song.” 

He’s deflecting, he knows and judging by the annoyance on Slider’s face, he knows it, too and he doesn't like it.

“That’s not—“ Slider starts before he cuts himself off with a sigh that sounds like a parent trying to pray for patience and Ice fights the urge to look away from the frustration he can see growing in Slider’s eyes. “That’s not what I mean, Ice, and you know it.” Slider says finally, eyeing Ice in a way that makes him uncomfortable. Like he’s a puzzle and Slider can’t figure out where all the pieces go or if he even has all the pieces to begin with. 

Ice feels a headache forming behind his eyes and he really just wants to be done with this conversation. 

But Slider’s a persistent son of a bitch and Ice knows he’s not getting out of this conversation, not matter how many evasive maneuvers he tries to pull. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ice says honestly, because _what is there to say?_ This isn’t something he can just… _come out_ and say, no pun intended. He knows the risks. And while everyone else in that bar can pass off what happened as drunken fun, this is _Slider_ and Slider doesn't miss a thing. That’s why Ice wanted him as his wingman in the first place. 

“Oh, c’mon, Tom, don’t pull that _Iceman_ bullshit with me.” Slider says with an annoyed roll of his eyes. “I know you better than anyone, now what the hell was that in there?”

Ice bristles involuntarily and Slider must catch it— _of course he does,_ Ice thinks to himself bitterly—because his eyes soften and some of his frustration leaks out of him, replaced with a desire to _understand._ It’s annoyingly _sweet_ and if they were having a different conversation, Ice might give him shit for it. 

But right now, with his heart hammering in his throat and the waves of nausea rolling like an angry sea in his stomach, Ice isn’t exactly in a teasing mood. 

“Look, you don’t have to tell me,” Slider says after a beat of silence and some of the tension eases in Ice’s shoulders, the relief threatening to bowl him over. “But, Tom,” Slider adds, voice uncharacteristically soft, _gentle_ and Ice really wants to hate him for it, but he can’t because it’s _Slider_ and Slider is his best friend. “You know that if there’s… _anything_ you want to talk to me about…tell me, you know you can, right?”

Ice’s eyes feel suspiciously wet and he has to clear his throat three times before he can speak around the hard lump in his throat. Even when he does manage, his voice still sounds like he’s swallowed nails. 

“I know,” Ice says, voice strained. “I know,” he repeats, softer, to himself. A reassurance for both himself and Slider, who’s still watching him with that _look._ Like he’s torn between wanting to hug him or take him back into the bar and buy him another drink. 

Ice doesn’t know which thought terrifies him more—Slider hugging him or going back into a bar full of people who just saw another _guy_ drop to his knees and serenade him. 

Both are equally horrifying and Ice decides to change the subject before Slider can commit to either line of action. 

“So, do you know who that was back there?” Ice asks, beginning to walk down the sidewalk again, towards their shared housing and Slider looks relieved at the change of topic. 

Ice watches out the corner of his eye as Slider’s lip curls and his face twists into a look that suggests he stepped into something particularly nasty, which does nothing to hinder his curiosity; only deepens it. 

He refuses to call it anything other than curiosity, though. Ice isn’t _interested_ in the guy. Not like _that,_ at least. He’s just vaguely curious about the objectively attractive person that picked him, of all people, to make a fool of himself over, in a bar full of witness, at that. 

Ice is not interested. 

He’s _not._

“His name is Pete Mitchell,” Slider answers, practically _sneering_ it in a way that Ice decides he doesn't like, though he’s not sure _why._ It’s not like he knows the guy or anything, but there’s something there, lurking underneath the surface of his skin at the thought of someone being _mean_ to the outgoing and playful pilot. 

Slider also says his name— _Pete Mitchell—_ with a certain infliction that implies his name alone should be answer enough. Like Ice should just _know,_ by the guy’s name, like it should explain _everything._ Only it’s leaving Ice with more questions than answers. 

Slider must see it on his face, because he stops walking again and turns to Ice, eyebrows raised in disbelief. 

“Wait, you seriously don’t know?” Slider demands, incredulous .

“No, I must’ve missed that particular piece of gossip during the knitting circle,” Ice returns sardonically before he starts walking again. 

He hears Slider’s sigh from behind him, can picture his eye roll, but Ice just keeps walking, regret swimming in his gut at even asking in the first place. 

“I wasn’t gossiping,” Slider huffs when he catches up to him. “Really,” he adds at his raised eyebrow. “I just heard some of the guys talking and apparently the guy’s dad was pilot, back in the day, one of the best,” Slider snorts derisively. “What the Navy didn’t know was that he was actually working with the enemy the entire time and he disappeared during a mission, leaving his entire team to fight off over a dozen bogeys by themselves. One of the pilots he was flying with saw him fly over enemy lines and he was never seen again,” Slider shakes his head in disgust. “Betrayed his wingman, his entire _country_ and the Navy still let his son in,” Slider scoffs. _“_ Un- _fucking-_ blieveable.”

Rather than commiserate in Slider’s patriotic righteous indignation, Ice finds himself digesting the new information with an ache in his chest and the desire to turn on his heel and go back into the bar and shield the overly flirty pilot from the hateful glares and harsh whispers about something he can’t control. 

Slider shrugs, continuing, “Apparently he’s really reckless, too. Sundown told me that the guy went through more RIO’s than underwear before he found someone who was actually crazy enough to fly with him,” Slider snorts. “Hear he goes by _Maverick_ now, the poor bastard. He doesn’t stand a chance with a callsign like that, no CAG’ll want him anywhere near their carrier, especially when they find out he’s Duke Mitchell’s son.”

Slider continues to talk, but Ice tunes him out, uninterested in anymore gossip at Maverick’s expense.

_Maverick,_ Ice thinks, rolling the name around in his mind, testing it out, placing the name with the face. _It suits him,_ he decides with a secret smile. 

He pictures playful green eyes and a mischievous smile and thinks, _one day, Maverick Mitchell, one day._

_*_

“ _Ice,”_ Maverick pants. “ _More.”_

Ice hums against the sweaty skin of Maverick’s neck. “Not yet.”

Maverick whines, hips canting up, impatient and demanding. “I’m not your prom date, Kazansky,” he huffs, spreading his legs wider, groaning when Ice’s finger teases over his prostate. “You don’t have to be gentle with me, I can take it.”

Ice chuckles, pulling away to smirk down at Maverick, who’s face is scrunched up in an odd mixture of pleasure and annoyance. It errs more towards pleasure when Ice strokes the tip of his finger continuously over Maverick’s prostate, eliciting a series of _oh oh oh’s_ that go straight to Ice’s cock which remains, aching and untouched, between his legs. 

He lets his finger slip out on the last thrust and, ignoring Maverick’s grunt of irritation, he squirts another generous amount of lube into his hand, warming it between his fingers before he teases it back over Maverick’s slick entrance.

“I told you,” Ice murmurs, chasing the pout away from Maverick’s lips with a brief kiss. “I want to take my time with you.”

Maverick whimpers, grinding his ass against Ice’s fingers, hole fluttering, searching for friction, for _Ice_. Which is _so fucking hot._

“ _Ice,_ ” Maverick pleads, groaning when Ice denies him once more. _“Please.”_

Arousal zings down Ice’s body, coiling at the base of his spine and he decides to take pity on him, sliding his fingers—both of them, at the same time, much to Maverick’s surprise and delight—back into Maverick’s willing body. 

“Fine,” Ice says, placing a placating kiss on those pouty lips. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

Maverick’s laughter turns into a choked off moan when Ice slides down his body and takes his cock into his mouth. 

*

Thomas Kazansky is eighteen the first time he gets drunk.

Graduation has gone and past, the summer’s almost over and his friend, Jimmy, drags him to a party, against his wishes of going to see the new John Travolta film that’s playing down at the movie theater in the mall. 

The party is being thrown by their fellow senior, Jack Forster, who lives on the richer side of town in a sprawling mansion that’s right on the beach. He was Tom’s co-captain on the Lacrosse team, senior class president and Salutatorian to Tom’s Valedictorian and despite all that, he was one of the nicest guys Tom’s had ever met. 

(He’s also the prettiest guy Tom had ever met and the first to make Ice wonder _what if)._

The party is in full swing by the time Tom and Jimmy get there—the living room is packed, _Journey_ blasting from the stereo, people swaying drunkenly with red solo cups in their hands. A dude standing by a pony keg shoves drinks into their hands and Tom isn’t interested in drinking, but Jimmy downs his in one go and Tom figures _fuck it_ and downs his, too. 

The guy laughs and refills their cups for them. “Gotta catch up with the rest of us, dudes. Bottoms up.”

After the third round, they’re allowed to explore the house and Tom is already feeling the the buzz. His belly is warm, his cheeks are flushed and he finds himself swaying to the beat of ABBA’s _Dancing Queen_ and okay, yeah, this is fun, he’s starting to see the appeal. 

Some girl Tom doesn’t recognize drags him on to the makeshift dance floor and they dance for a couple of songs and then Jimmy puts another drink in Tom’s hand and that one makes his limbs feel heavy and loose at the same time. Makes the room spin and things seem a little fuzzier at the edges and he’s so out of it that he damn near misses the girl he’s dancing with trying to kiss him. 

He dodges her at the last minute, shooting her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I—“

“—have a girlfriend,” the girl says with a forlorn sigh. “All the good looking ones do.”

Tom most definitely _doesn't_ have a girlfriend, but he lets the lie go because it sounds better than _I just really don’t want to kiss you._

“Sorry,” He says again, but she waves him off with a smile. 

He stumbles into the kitchen for water and downs a whole glass. It helps get rid of some of the dizziness, so he fills up another cup and heads outside, on to the deck. 

The ocean air is balmy and cool against his skin and he breathes a sigh of relief at being away from all the drunk, sweaty bodies and the loud pulsing music. 

The night is clear, the moon hanging full above the waves that lap lazily at the shore and it’s calming; wrapping Tom into a blanket and he feels sleepy, content. 

The door behind him opens and Jack steps out, smiling when he sees Tom, perfect white teeth gleaming in the moonlight and Tom’s stomach does a weird little flip. 

“There you are,” Jack says, closing the sliding glass door with soft _snick_. “I thought Sandra was lying to me when she said you were here.”

Tom wonders if it’s the alcohol, but Jack sounds like he’s actually _happy_ at the fact that Tom is here, at his party, in his house. He also wonders if Sandra is the girl that tried to kiss him, but then Jack leans up against the railing next to him and all thoughts of Sandra’s identity go out the window. Jack’s body is warm and he smells like citrus and it’s making him feel dizzy and it’s got nothing to do with alcohol.

“Nope, not a lie,” Tom says, taking a sip of his water.

“I see that,” Jack says, lips quirking into a wry grin. His eyes glint silver in the moonlight, shimmering like stars and he’s so beautiful and _holy shit,_ is Tom drunk. 

“So,” Jack says, taking a sip from his own cup. “Ready for fall? I know I am, college is going to be so much better than high school.”

“I—um, I’m actually not going to college,” Tom says. “I’m going to Annapolis in the fall—Naval Academy. I want to be a pilot.”

Jack whistles, low and impressed and it makes Tom blush. “Wow, that’s really cool.”

“Yeah?” Tom asks shyly, glancing up at Jack from underneath his lashes. 

Jack smiles, slow and sweet and so so pretty. “Hell yeah it is, dude. You’re gonna go off and train to be a badass pilot while I’m going to school for a business degree,” Jack shakes his head, still grinning, nudging Tom’s shoulder with his playfully. “Always gotta one up me, huh, Kazansky?”

They’re standing so close now, Tom can feel the heat of Jack’s body through his expensive cashmere sweater that’s soft against the skin of Tom’s arm, his warm breath brushing across Tom’s cheek like a caress and he’s looking at Tom with such a fondness, lips curled into an amused, teasing smile and he’s just so handsome, so Tom and the alcohol decide that it’s a _great_ idea to kiss him. 

Jack’s lips are smooth and warm and he tastes like beer, which, not the best thing in the world, but Tom doesn't care. Because he’s kissing Jack and Jack is—pushing him away.

“Dude, what the _fuck?!”_ Jack says, wiping at his mouth, face twisted in disgust. “Did you just seriously _kiss_ me?!”

Tom can feel the panic welling up inside him like a wave, right before it swells and crashes into the shore. It’s boiling hot and overwhelming and Tom feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“I’m so sorry,” Tom says, reaching out to, well, he doesn’t really know what he’s trying to do, but either way, Jack doesn’t let him, backing away from him like Tom’s got an infectious disease. It stings and only adds to the rising panic. “Jack, seriously, I didn’t mean to, I’m just drunk and—“

Jack scoffs. “You really expect me to believe that? You’re drinking water, for fuckssake, there’s no way that you’re drunk—“

“But I am!” Tom says desperately. “I had like, four drinks and I’ve never drank before and—“

But Jack isn’t listening and doesn't seem to care to. “Is this what this is? You wanted to be friends with me because you had, what? A _crush_ on me?” Jack laughs cruelly. “Well, I hate to break to you, Tom, but I’m not a fag—”

“But I’m not—“ Tom tries and to his utter horror, there’s tears welling in his eyes and his throat is tight with shame and embarrassment and he can’t say _I’m not gay_ , because they just won’t come out and Jack is openly laughing at him and—

“—and the last time I checked, they don’t allow fags in the Navy.” Jack says with a nasty smile. “And if you don’t leave, right now, I’m going to go inside and tell everyone that you apparently like to bend over and take it up the ass.”

And Tom knows he will, can see the promise glinting in his cold blue eyes and it sends a shiver of mind numbing fear racing down Tom’s spine, trickling like ice in veins, freezing every nerve ending in his body. 

So drunk and confused, Tom stumbles home that night and it’s not until he’s in his bed that he allows the tears he’s been holding back, fall in rivulets down his cheeks that are still stained with burning embers of humiliation. 

Tom Kazansky is eighteen the first time he gets his heart broken. 

(His first day at the academy, Tom Kazansky becomes the _Iceman—_ because he keeps cool under pressure, doesn’t break when instructors scream in his face. It follows him to flight school, where his ice cold, no mistakes flying makes him one of the best and he graduates top of his class. With ice in veins and ice around his heart, Tom Kazansky fades away and the Iceman is born). 

*

The first time Ice slides into Maverick feels like the first time he sat down in the cockpit of an F-14 Tomcat—tight, warm and so so _right._

Ice swallows Maverick’s sharp exhale, soothing the sting, the burn, with his lips—kissing Maverick slow and dirty, mapping every inch of Maverick’s mouth with his tongue. 

Maverick relaxes, wiggles his hips, a silent plea for Ice to move and he obliges him, grinding his hips to tease the tip of his cock over Maverick’s prostate before he pulls out completely and snaps right back in. 

Maverick’s body gives easily this time, accepting Ice’s cock, pulling him in and keeping him there, like this is where Ice was supposed to be, all along. 

“Ice,” Maverick moans, nails scratching down Ice’s back. “Faster.”

Ice shushes him by capturing his lips, hips rocking into Maverick slowly, gently, enjoying the drag of Maverick’s walls against the sensitive skin of cock, belly tightening every time the head catches on his rim. 

“Slow and steady, baby,” Ice murmurs, littering kisses along Maverick’s face—his cheeks, his nose, the frustrated crease between his eyebrows. “I’ll get you there, just be patient.”

Maverick’s laugh is breathy and it washes over the flushed skin of Ice’s cheek like a warm caress. “Patience isn’t my style.”

Maverick’s nails dig into his shoulder blades, tiny pin pricks of pain blooming across his skin, when he circles his hips, grinding the head of his cock right into Maverick’s prostate. 

“Good thing I’m in control,” Ice says with a smug grin, nipping at Maverick’s jaw. 

He increases the speed of his thrusts, just to watch the way Maverick’s inky black lashes flutter against his cheeks, the way his teeth sink into his lip to hold back his sounds, which, that just won’t do. 

Ice stops mid thrust and waits. Maverick’s eyes to flutter open, face twisting into a scowl, lips parting to, no doubt, demand _just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, Ice_ , but it doesn't come, because Ice doesn’t give him the chance to even form the words.

He rocks forward, nailing Maverick’s prostate dead on and Maverick moans, loudly and it goes straight to Ice’s cock. 

“Don’t hide from me,” Ice whispers, kissing his chin. “Let me hear you, Mav.”

Maverick’s flush darkens, Ice smiles and they find their rhythm again. 

*

Ice didn’t want to go out tonight, but Slider dragged him out against his will with some of the other guys to enjoy their last few nights of freedom before they shipped out to the Gulf for six months. 

It was fun for the first hour or so, but now the bar is packed with younger pilot trainees from the Academy, most of the guys they came with were already drunk and Slider disappeared with some girl he’s trying to take home, leaving Ice at the bar by himself. 

Which, Ice would be fine with, if he could at least get another drink to make this night a bit more tolerable. But the bartenders on staff tonight are running around in circles, tripping over each other, trying to keep up with the influx of drink orders the drunk trainees are shouting at them from all over the bar. 

So, Ice is stuck with what _was_ a vodka on the rocks when he’d ordered it, but now it’s more like a watered down vodka neat that’s gone lukewarm from being in the heat of his hand all night. 

Just as he manages to catch the bartender’s eye and it looks like Ice is finally getting that new drink, their attention gets pulled to two guys that managed to elbow their way through the crowd and shout their order to the frazzled looking bartender.

Annoyed, Ice follows the bartender’s gaze, glare firmly in place for whoever swooped in and stole his opportunity at getting a fresh drink. All he can see is the back of the guy’s head as he talks to his companion—a tall guy with a goofy smile and kind eyes—but it’s fine, Ice has been told that his glare is sharp enough that it can be physically felt, so it’s only a matter of time before this guy feels it, too and when he does, Ice is going make it _hurt,_ because if he’s going to be stuck here, he’s going to at least have a few drinks and put them on Slider’s tab because it’s the least Slider can do for dragging him here in the first place. 

But when the bartender hands them their beers—Budweiser, _ew_ —the guy turns and Ice can finally see his face—his beautiful, _gorgeous_ face—and the way it lights up when he shoots the bartender a charming smile, and Ice’s belly _swoops,_ heart freezing momentarily before it starts working over time and— _oh no._

_Oh no no no no_

Ice watches with bated breath as the guy brings the bottle to his lips, inky black lashes fluttering shut as he takes a long pull; the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the cool liquid; the pink tongue that sneaks out and traces over his lower lip to catch any stray drops when he’s done—and it’s just, something as mundane as drinking a beer should not be _this_ sexy. 

Ice takes a sip of his drink distractedly, grimacing at the taste of what’s essentially water with the aftertaste of vodka, but even that doesn’t pull his attention away from the attractive stranger as he chats with his friend, both of them sipping their respective beers. 

A hand settles on his shoulder and if Ice were a lesser man, he would’ve jumped, but they don’t call him the Iceman for nothing. 

“Yo, Ice, what are you doing over here by yourself, man?” Slider asks, sliding into the barstool next to him.

“Communing with the new recruits,” Ice says dryly, nodding to a set of trainees having a chugging contest across the bar. 

Slider snorts. “I swear, the Navy gets more desperate each year,” turning back to Ice, he nods over to the rest of the guys over in the corner paying darts. “C’mon, lets go show ‘em how it’s done.”

Ice sighs. “I don’t know—“

“Ice, c’mon, man, you can’t just sit here all night. Besides,” Slider adds, nodding over to the group, where a rather busty red head is lingering and she’s eyeing Ice in a way that’s making him decidedly uncomfortable, “that girl has been eyeing you all night man and she’s a lot prettier sight than that.” He says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder where the trainees have moved on from a chugging contest to what looks to be a _how many pretzels can you stuff into your mouth?_ contest. 

“Fine,” Ice says. “But let me at least get another drink first.”

Slider grins, slapping Ice on the back. “Atta boy, Ice.”

Ice rolls his eyes and Slider ignores him, waving the bartender over and orders them fresh drinks—another Stoli on the rocks for Ice and another Blue Moon for Slider. 

As Ice collects his drink from the bartender, he feels the weight of a stare pickle across his skin and he looks up, breath catching in his throat when he meets the green eyed gaze of his dark haired stranger. 

Ice can’t help but sweep his eyes down Mr. Short-Dark-and-Handsome’s body—from his tight white t-shirt that emphasizes his tan skin and the corded muscle of his arms, all the way down to his tight jeans that grip strong thighs and disappear into a ridiculous pair of cowboy boots—before they flicker back up to his face. 

There’s a flush to his cheeks that wasn’t there a few moments ago and it makes Ice smirk and wonder just how far down that flush goes.

“Ice? You coming?” Slider demands impatiently from behind him. 

_I wish,_ Ice thinks to himself, eyes on Mr. Green Eyes plush pink lips. 

“Ice?” 

_Last time I checked, fags weren’t allowed in the Navy,_ a cruel voice reminds him.

Shaking his head, Ice comes back to himself, grabbing his drink and takes a sip, letting the burn of the vodka distract him from what he can’t have. 

“Yeah,” Ice says, swallowing heavily, “I’m coming.”

*

Pleasure, white hot and blinding, washes over Ice as he watches Maverick rock his hips experimentally on Ice’s cock, testing the new angle, getting used to the fullness—Ice knows it can be overwhelming, the stretch is different like this, a whole new burn and ache and Maverick takes it beautifully. 

Head thrown back, lashes fluttering, Maverick rotates his hips and Ice groans, low and throaty, when he feels Maverick’s walls flutter and tighten around his cock on the upstroke, before Maverick sinks back down, trying to find his rhythm this way. 

Maverick’s cock bobs, heavy and swollen, between them and Ice lets his fingers tease over the pulsing vein, drags a nail over the head, smirking when Maverick shudders at the bite of pain mixed in with the pleasure. 

He’s beautiful like this, bouncing on Ice’s cock, pretty face scrunched in pleasure, teeth tugging at his flushed lower lip, green eyes dark and filled to the brim with heat and _want._

Ice rocks up as Maverick rocks down and it makes Maverick’s hips stutter, a breathless moan leaving his lips that sounds a lot like Ice’s name. 

“C’mon, baby,” Ice coaxes, circling his hips, grinding the head of his cock right where Maverick wants it. “Keep going, you’re doing so good.”

Maverick whines and begins fucking himself on Ice’s cock again, but this time, he’s ready for it when Ice’s cants his hips up, meeting him on the down stroke and it’s—Ice isn’t gonna last like this, can feel the tightening in his belly, like a rubber band ready to snap. 

“Ice,” Maverick whispers, nails dragging through the smattering of hair over Ice’s lower belly. “Fuck, Ice, I—“

Ice leans up and catches Maverick’s lips in a messy kiss, winding his arms around Maverick’s hips as they rock together, working towards completion. 

“I know, Mav,” Ice murmurs assuringly against his lips. “Me, too.”

*

Ice wants to go home. 

The bar is even more crowded now, Slider’s in a pissy mood because he lost a hundred bucks and a game of darts to Chipper and Ice can’t find the dark haired, green eyed stranger with the porn star lips from earlier. Not that it matters, really, because it’s not like Ice was going to like, go up and talk to him or anything. Besides, even if he wanted to, it’s not like he could.

_Last time I checked, they don’t allow fags into the Navy_

Just as Ice lifts his drink to finish it and head home, he feels a tap on his shoulder, followed by an unfamiliar voice:

“Excuse me, sir?” 

Ice sighs and chances a glance over his shoulder, mentally preparing himself to deal with some drunk asshole looking to start shit about taking his seat or Ice’s frosted tips. He damn near drops his glass, however, when his eyes land on a familiar head of dark hair and the brightest green eyes Ice has ever seen in his life. 

They’re the perfect mixture of green and blue, flirting between mint and sea-foam on the color wheel and underneath the bar lights, Ice can see tiny flecks of gold and they shimmer like the sunlight catching on the ocean waves at sunset. 

They’re _beautiful_ and Ice is so entranced by getting to see them up close that he almost misses the microphone in the guys hands and when he does, his eyebrows nearly shoot up into his hairline. 

“Can I help you?” Ice asks, flicking his gaze down to the microphone and back, eyebrow raising further when it takes the guy a moment to answer. 

Those green eyes search Ice’s and for a brief moment, it feels like he’s underneath a microscope, like those green eyes can see _through_ him and the thought is equal parts intriguing and terrifying. 

Whatever the guy was searching for, he must’ve found it, because Ice can see the way he draws himself up to attention and the cocksure smirk that pulls at his enticing lips should be annoying—and maybe, on anyone else, it would be—but it only draws Ice’s attention to how soft and full they are, makes him wonder what they would feel like underneath his. 

“Has anyone every told you,” The guy begins, stepping closer to Ice, so close that he can feel the heat of his body, smell his woodsy cologne and it makes him a little dizzy, “that _nothing_ compares to you?”

His voice is low and suggestive, but the question is so ridiculous that it makes Ice’s lips twitch, laughter bubbling up in chest and threatening to break free. 

“Excuse me?” Ice demands. 

The guy’s tall and goofy friend suddenly appears, throwing an arm around Mr. Green Eyes, shooting Ice a smile that’s full of apology and fond exasperation and Ice is willing to bet it’s an expression he wears often, being friends with this guy. 

“I’m sorry, man, my friend here is drunk, I’ll get him out of your hair—“ 

“ _It’s been seven hours and thirteen days since you took your love away,”_ the guy croons suddenly into the microphone, drawing the attention of the entire bar, but his gaze stays on Ice as he begins to sway to the music in his head and his friend begins to snap, off beat and starts swaying with him as Mr. Green eyes continues to sing. 

And like, it’s not _good—_ his voice is off-key and kind of terrible and his friend’s off-beat snapping doesn’t help and this guy couldn’t match pitch if his life depended on it—but he’s all charm and confidence as he warbles into the mic, eyes sparkling with mirth as he sways back and forth like those old Motown groups preforming at the Apollo, encouraging the bar to sing along to the chorus with a wave of his hand, like he’s Diana Ross and they’re the rest of the Supremes. 

Soon, the whole bar, Slider included, is singing along to a Prince song that Ice had thought, up until now, at least, wasn’t popular enough for all the patrons in some shitty bar in Pensacola, Florida to know. 

The guy brings it home by dropping to his knees in front of Ice, singing the last few lines with such an overdramatic flourish that Ice can’t help the smile that breaks across his face if he tries. 

The bar erupts into raucous applause when he’s finished, people whooping and cheering drunkenly, like they just witnessed Prince perform live and not some wannabe singing a cappella karaoke. Ice can feel himself flush at the attention, but he ignores them all; helping the guy to his feet by taking his offered hand, shivering at the sudden flare of heat, the desire that curls low and hot in his belly, just by feeling this guy’s hand in his. 

It takes him completely off guard, making him feel off kilter and out of control, like he’s flying blindfolded without a parachute for backup in case he crashes. 

Ice can feel the panic welling up inside him, like ocean at high tide and it only worsens when the guy is openly flirting with him, asking Ice if he wants him buy a drink and it’s just—he _can’t—_

_Last time I checked they don’t allow faggots in the Navy_

The guy takes his rejection on the chin and Ice wonders if he’s imagining the disappointment he sees flash through those green eyes, the little frown that tugs the corners of his lips downwards. 

But as soon as it appears, it’s gone and the guy gives him a small smile and his voice is so hopeful when he says, “Well, maybe one day you’ll change your mind.”

Ice smiles, a little sad, a little wistful because one day is far _far_ off into the future and even if he ever manages to find his way there, he doesn’t even know this guy’s name. Doesn’t even know if he’ll ever even see him again to learn it. 

“Maybe,” Ice says, because he won’t make a promise he can’t keep.

*

Maverick comes, cradled in Ice’s arms, hips grinding desperately with Ice’s, nails scratching down Ice’s back and with Ice’s name spilling breathlessly from his lips like a prayer. 

It’s beautiful and messy and so fucking hot that it makes Ice come, too, pinning Maverick’s hips tightly in his grasp as his hips stutter and his body shakes with the force of his orgasm. 

They fall together, in a messy tangle of sweaty limbs and desperate kisses, against the twisted sheets of Maverick’s bed; Maverick clinging to Ice like an octopus with separation anxiety and Ice doesn't mind it, re-situating them so it’s more comfortable. 

Ice’s softening cock slips from inside Maverick, making him shiver and Maverick whine, shifting his hips, whether at the loss or the come now dripping out of his ass, Ice isn’t sure, but he kisses Maverick in silent apology, pulling the sheet over their bodies to combat the chill in the room. 

Maverick hums, snuggling into the dip between Ice’s neck and shoulder; a perfect fit. 

“Guess it’s a good thing you planned on staying the night,” Maverick murmurs after a beat and Ice is pleased to note the still breathy quality of his voice. 

“Oh yeah?” Ice asks, trailing his fingers down Maverick’s back, up and down, up and down, can’t get enough of being able to finally _touch._ “Why’s that?”

“Because as soon as I get the energy, we’re definitely doing that again,” Maverick says matter of factly, kissing the surprised laugher from Ice’s lips.

*

That night in the bar never leaves Ice’s mind—stupid Prince song and all. Green eyes and a daring smirk haunt his dreams and it’s all Ice can think about for three goddamn years. It doesn't matter how many randoms he hooks up with while he’s away on leave, how many times he tries—he just can’t forget about Pete “Maverick” Mitchell. 

It doesn’t help that rumors fly faster than planes in the Navy, especially in the inner pilot circle. Pilots, when they’re not in the air, spend most of their time gossiping, sharing secrets and spreading half-truths worse than twelve year old girls playing telephone at a slumber party. Usually it starts with Joe Somebody getting a letter from his buddy who heard from someone else, who heard from someone else who’s stationed on the _Enterprise,_ that they’ll never guess what antics Duke Mitchell’s son is up to now. 

Some of the gossip even comes from the officers and like, not that Ice is listening or anything, but anytime Pete Mitchell gets brought up in conversation, his ears can’t help but perk up in interest. 

And while the only rumors Ice listens to is his mom’s old Fleetwood Mac album on vinyl, he can’t help himself from listening whenever Pete Mitchell’s name gets brought up—even if he doesn’t believe anything that comes out of whatever gossip-monger’s mouth. 

And what time Ice doesn't spend on flying or (not) listening for Maverick’s name to come up in conversation, he finds himself both hoping and dreading the thought of their paths ever crossing while on deployment. 

It’s rare, but it’s not also not completely out of the realm of possibility that one day, they receive the same orders and end up on the same ship together for six to nine months. Which, would simultaneously be the best and worst possible thing to happen to Ice since the whole Jack Forester thing the summer before he enlisted. 

Because while Ice wants the chance to get to know Maverick Mitchell, see him fly up close and personal, he also isn’t ready to open that door, not yet. Not when they’re surrounded by two hundred plus people that could end their careers in a heartbeat if they even suspected or thought that something was there between them. 

So, for now, Ice is content to learn about Maverick from a distance, even if he hopes, one day, he’ll be able to see the arrogant pilot again and take him up on his offer. 

*

It takes them almost an hour to get the energy to go again and this time, Maverick is the one who takes it upon himself to take Ice apart. 

“Just giving you a taste of your own medicine, Kazansky,” Maverick says when Ice snaps at him to _hurry the fuck up and get on with it, Mitchell, Jesus._

Ice feels himself flush—he likes the way Maverick says his name, _Ka-zan-sky,_ like it’s three separate words, each syllable inflicted with a gentle teasing, a little flirtation, a little taunting, a challenge that Ice will rises to, every time, if it means Maverick will keep saying his name like that.

Maverick takes him on his side, Maverick’s body a long line of warmth along his own, Ice’s ass cradled into the curve of Maverick’s, Ice’s body cocooned in the safety of Maverick’s strong arms. Ice is taller, but he feels small, spooned up against Maverick’s heated body and it’s—kind of terrifying, kind of exhilarating and overwhelming, especially when he feels the blunt head of Maverick’s cock slide past his rim, achingly slow and it’s—

_“Fuck,”_ Maverick breathes, warm breath tickling the back of Ice’s neck, making him shiver. 

When Maverick seats himself fully inside of Ice, he gives Ice a moment to adjust, to take it in, get used to the feeling—it’s been a long time since Ice has done this, so long that he forgets just how much this can feel, teetering between the line of _too much_ and _not enough_ and he needs more, he needs—

“Mav,” Ice croaks, voice rough and pleading. “Move, _please.”_

And with a gentleness that Ice can’t ever recall being treated with, gripping his hips to anchor himself, Maverick pulls out and pushes back in, testing it out before he settles into a slow, deep rhythm that threatens to crack Ice open and melt him into a puddle right here on the sheets. 

*

When Ice eventually comes out to Slider, they’re waiting on their transport to take them to Miramar, to Top Gun, to compete to be the best of the best and Ice isn’t sure why, he choses now, of all time to say it. One moment, they’re talking about who they’re going to be up against, how it’ll feel to sleep in a real bed, with a real mattress and real sheets and Ice just feels the words that he’s been carrying around since that night, outside the bar, bubble up inside him and spill past his lips without his permission and then it’s just there, out in the open—

“I’m gay.”

—and it feels like the first time he jumped out of a plane. A terrifying moment of weightlessness before gravity kicks in and pulls him down, hurtling towards the earth at breakneck speed and all he can do it go with it and pray, with every fiber of his being, that his parachute opens in time and he doesn’t get crushed between the earth and his own g-force. It’s the first time, in a long time, since that fateful night after that doomed party, that he feels like Tom Kazansky and not the Iceman. He’s terrified and nervous, stomach churning and he’s like, _this close_ , to throwing up because this is was such a bad idea—

But Slider—his RIO, his best friend—just gives him this small, little knowing smile, shrugs and says, “Okay,” and that’s that.

No question, no looks of disgust, no _last time I checked they don’t allow fags in the Navy_ and Ice has to look away, has to take a moment and just breathe through the overwhelming amount of relief he feels at that one, simple word, said with so much love and acceptance and it’s just— _a lot_. All at once. 

“Okay,” Ice echoes and it gets lost in the wind as their transport arrives and they’re being shepherded on to another boat, which will take them to the plane that will take them to California, which is the closest Ice has been to _home_ in almost ten months.

_*_

Maverick is everywhere—behind him, kissing him, touching him, inside him, fucking him—all around Ice so all he can see, feel, touch and smell is _Maverick_ —the mixture of faded sweat and cologne on his skin, the way the callouses on his fingers catch and drag on Ice’s skin, the way his tan skin gleams in the low lamp light as his arm snakes around Ice’s front, pushing him further into the curve of his body. 

The angle is just right, every thrust forward sends Maverick’s cock right into his prostate and it makes the heat coil tighter and tighter in his belly, fingers scrabbling at the sheets as he thrusts his hips back, meeting Maverick half way and it sends pleasure rocking through Ice’s body and he shudders, gasping. 

“Mav,” Ice says breathless, turning his head, searching and Maverick’s already there; lips capturing Ice’s, the hand on Ice’s chest sliding to cup the side of his jaw, cradling the side of Ice’s head almost reverently and it sends affection spreading—languid, like warm honey—through Ice’s veins, making him breathless for an entirely _different_ reason. 

“Yeah,” Maverick murmurs and Ice tastes the words on his lips. “Me, too.”

*

Ice wonders if it’s some sort of cosmic coincidence or just pure chance that, two days after he comes out to his best friend, he happens to spot Maverick from across a smokey bar, like the world’s worst country song. 

_Of all the gin joints,_ Ice thinks ruefully.

He looks good in his dress whites, inky black hair wind swept and way too long to be regulation, wearing a smile that spells nothing but trouble.

“I’ll be damned,” Slider says from his spot at the bar next to him. “Wonder who’s ass he had to kiss to make it all the way to TopGun.”

“Probably the same ones you had to kiss in order to get into Annapolis,” Ice says drily, taking a sip of his vodka on the rocks. His heart is racing and the glass is slippery underneath his suddenly sweaty palms.

He doesn’t have to look at Slider to know that he’s pouting, he can hear it in his voice when he says, “Yeah, well, from what I heard, if it wasn’t for someone else screwing up, he wouldn’t even be here.”

“It’s true,” Hollywood chimes in from behind them, setting his empty down on the bar and signaling the bartender for another one. Turning to them, he says, with all the excitement of someone who has a particularly juicy secret, “One of my buddies stationed on the _Enterprise_ said they came in contact with some MiGs about a week ago and one of them got a radar lock on one of the pilots on the mission. Shook the poor bastard up so much that he turned in his wings and went home, gave up his spot,” Hollywood shakes his head, frowning. “Shame too, he was supposed to be one of the best.”

“Can’t be that good if one little MiG sighting was enough for him to give up his wings,” Slider says with a snort, taking a sip of his beer. 

Hollywood shrugs. “Who knows, man, all I know is that guy—” he tips his fresh beer towards Maverick, who’s leaning up against the bar and chatting with the same guy from three years ago—his RIO, maybe. “—is crazier than a damn June bug. That guy went toe to toe with the MiG and didn’t even flinch—he went fucking inverted with the damn thing.”

“Bullshit,” Slider says with a scoff. 

“It’s true!” Hollywood says, sounding just _this_ side of drunk. “My buddy saw the Polaroid, Maverick flipped the dude off and everything.”

Slider makes a sound of disgust. “And they let him into TopGun?” He shakes his head, incredulous. “You hearing this Ice?”

“What, you two gossiping like a bunch of fucking girls?” Ice asks, not bothering to take his eyes off Maverick. He’s laughing at something his friend is saying and even from here, Ice can see the way those green eyes sparkle as they sweep through the room. His heart skitters to a stop when those eyes come close to landing on him, but then his friend says something and it pulls Maverick’s attention back to him and Ice releases the breath he didn’t realize he holding. 

It’s not that he doesn't _want_ Maverick to see him, it’s just—this isn’t something he wants to do in front of an entire bar _again._ He may be farther along with accepting who is than what he was three years ago, but still. He prefers a little discretion when it comes to matters of the heart. 

(And if this works out the way he hopes it does, well, he’s not against Maverick giving him a private show). 

Smirking, Ice waves the bartender down and orders another Stoli on the rocks, but— 

“Give it to the gentleman down at the other end of the bar,” He says to the bartender, nodding in Maverick’s direction.

He can feel the weight of Slider’s gaze burning a hole in the side of his face, but he ignores him in favor of watching Maverick’s reaction when the bartender slides the drink across the bar. The way his lips wrap around the rim of the glass as he takes a hesitant sip, the line of his throat as he swallows and Ice waits.

_Come on, Maverick_ , Ice thinks to himself anxiously, _remember._

If he were a lesser man, he’d be on the edge of his seat with anticipation as he waits and waits for what seems like forever, until finally, he sees the flicker of recognition and then—

Green eyes trap him in a radar lock and Ice forgets how to breathe.

Beside him, Slider groans forlornly into his beer. “Son of a _bitch._ ”

*

The thing about ice is that it melts, eventually. It will splinter and break and melt into a puddle that will eventually turn to vapor that will then get absorbed back into the atmosphere and find a home in the clouds in the sky. 

And wrapped up in Maverick’s arms, Ice feels like he’s trapped underneath the sun. Maverick’s body is just one long line of heat along Ice’s, fingers burning like a brand where they clutch at his hip, lips searing when they brush against his neck, breath a warm caress over his sweat damp skin when he murmurs Ice’s name like a prayer as he drives his cock, over and over, deeper and deeper inside his body, filling him and completing him, all at once. 

Maverick is like fire, brazen and passionate and all consuming and for the first time in a long time, Ice lets himself melt without fear of getting burned. 

*

Standing outside the bathroom, Ice has no plan. For the first time in a long time, he’s riding solely off of his emotions and they’re going _haywire._ He’s pissed and jealous and the whole bar is currently still singing that _stupid_ song and he’s just so goddamn angry because that was _their_ thing and then Maverick went and did it _again,_ right in front of him, after the whole drink thing, Ice thought Maverick had _remembered._

He feels stupid and embarrassed and hurt and it’s kind of like the Jack Forester thing but _worse_ , because Ice had thought, stupidly, that Maverick had been interested. 

_“—you’ve lost that lovin’ feeling, whoa whoa, that lovin’ feelin’—“_

Ice squares his shoulders. 

He’s not running this time. 

*

Ice can feel the familiar coiling of pressure at the base of his spine, the slow and steady swell of pleasure in the pit of his belly, licking over his nerves, making his toes curl and his heart stutter out an unsteady rhythm underneath Maverick’s calloused palm. 

“Let go, Ice,” Maverick whispers breathlessly, his slow, sure rhythm never faltering. “I’ve got you, Ice, just let go.”

*

Ice hasn’t had the opportunity to see a MiG up close, but he imagines, as he stands a mere six feet from Maverick as he washes his hands and whistles a jaunty tune to himself, that the feeling is pretty similar—a slight increase in heart rate, a sudden shot of adrenalin at the thought of a genuine challenge and somewhere, mixed between it all, is a small sliver of fear at the outcome, the possibility that this could end in a fiery death and plane parts scattered in tiny burned pieces at the bottom of the Indian Ocean. 

And when those green eyes meet his in the dirty mirror, Ice waits for that familiar calm to wash over him, that _ice cold, no mistakes_ persona he’s know for to take over and combat the sudden onslaught of nerves that makes him feel jittery and off-balance. 

It doesn’t come, however, and it makes Ice feel like an idiot, standing there, floundering like a fish out of water, hanging out to dry in his own regret and he knew this was a bad idea, he _knew_ it—

But then a dark eyebrow quirks in challenge, a silent dare that Ice just _can’t_ ignore. 

So he takes a step and then another, until he’s close enough to smell the ocean breeze in Maverick’s hair, the salt on his skin and says, “So, you _do_ use that song and dance on everyone.”

A flush blooms like a rose in search of the sun over tanned cheeks, green eyes glitter like emeralds underneath sweeping black lashes and Ice is a _goner._

_*_

When Ice comes, he feels it from the tips of his hair to the tips of his toes that curl into the sweat tangled sheets. It’s an explosion of pleasure that rocks him to his very core, shattering him from the inside out and Maverick coaxes him through it—stroking a calloused hand over his cock, nailing his prostate with every thrust of his hips, sucking bruises into the dip of his shoulder. 

“Yes, fuck, Ice, you did so good,” Maverick whispers the praises over the road map of love bites that litter his neck and shoulders. They say _Maverick Mitchell was here_ and Ice accepts all of it like a new bar on his uniform. “So good for me, baby.”

Maverick comes with a full body shudder and a breathless exhale that sounds like his name and Ice closes his eyes and just lets himself _feel._

*

Kissing Maverick for the first time feels like floating and falling at the same time. It’s pieces falling a part and coming together. It’s like coming home and starting over somewhere new. It’s flying through an open sky with a full tank of fuel and no destination in sight, just miles and miles of cloudless blue and freedom. So much _freedom._

And for the first time in a long time, Tom Kazansky feels _free._

*

“I was right,” Maverick murmurs afterwards, when they’re satiated and sleepy, laying between clean sheets, Ice propped up on pillows and Maverick snuggled into his side like he belongs there. 

He’s tracing patterns into Ice’s chest with the tip of his finger, mindless littledoodles that makes his belly flutter and his body tingle. The blinds are open and the moon casts the room in a calm blue glow, casting shadows across the white sheets and the plains of Maverick’s face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and making his eyes gleam a luminescent sea-glass-green. 

“Right about what?” Ice murmurs, trailing the tips of fingers along the dips of Maverick’s spine, across his shoulder blades, repeats the process until he has every scar and freckle memorized. 

Maverick rests his chin between Ice’s pecs, grin cheeky and totally charming. “That nothing compares to you.”

Ice snorts, loudly, embarrassingly and it makes Maverick smile, pleased and amused and it’s a beautiful sight. 

*

Slider’s smile is an odd mix of knowing resignation and pride when Ice finds him waiting, alone, at the bar, like he’d been prepared for this outcome, all along. 

“It’s him, isn't it?” He asks, titling his head towards the other end of the bar, where Maverick is talking to his RIO— _Goose,_ he called him—who doesn't seem all that surprised at what Maverick must be telling him. 

Their eyes meet and it’s an echo of three years ago, in a different bar, in a different state, but the pull, the desire, the want, is still the same.

*

“Ice?” Maverick asks softly. 

Ice hums, absently playing with the soft strands of hair at the base of Maverick’s neck. “Maverick,” he returns.

“Did you ever think about me?”

Ice thinks of the last three years—the endless dreams, the way he’d find himself paying close attention whenever the name _Maverick_ came up in conversation, a certain _Prince_ album stashed safely in the bottom of his duffle bag—and smiles. 

He flicks his eyes upwards and catches Maverick’s vulnerable gaze. 

“Every day,” he answers, painfully honest. Decides to go for broke when he sees the pretty flush dust Maverick’s cheeks pink. “You’re not exactly easy to forget.”

“Yeah?” Maverick asks, pleased. At Ice’s nod, he adds, coyly, “Well, you’re not so easy to forget, either, Kazansky,” and seals it with a kiss that makes Ice feel like he’s flying. 

*

Ice meets Slider’s eyes, smiling stupid and wide and says, truthful and more sure than he’s ever been about anything in his life, “It’s always been him.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think down below :)
> 
> I hope everyone has a safe and happy new year. 
> 
> Let's hope 2021 is a little bit kinder to us than 2020 was 
> 
> Until next time :)


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